


When We Were Young

by orphan_account



Category: Pink Carnation Series - Lauren Willig
Genre: F/M, derpderp, my horrible headcanon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-13
Updated: 2012-05-13
Packaged: 2017-11-05 06:53:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/403614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vaughn was not a cradle-robber. The girl was simply a flirt. || Vaughn/Mary; pre-Crimson Rose & post-Crimson Rose</p>
            </blockquote>





	When We Were Young

**Author's Note:**

> I JUST THOUGHT IT WOULD BE CUTE OKAY.
> 
> VAUGHN'S NOT A CRADLE-ROBBER. HE JUST LIKES PRETTY THINGS. TEEN!MARY IS A PRETTY THING.

The girl is exactly that; just a young girl, not even of age and beautiful.

But Sebastian Vaughn is not a cradle-robber.

The girl is fifteen—far too young for him; he’s twenty-five, widowed for about three years, and not old enough to find a young bride to keep him feeling young—but he appreciates beauty when he sees it, even if this particular beauty is more adorable than beautiful as of yet. She’s approaching that age when puberty should be making her gangly and awkward, and yet, she is none of that.

Her youthful skin is pale and smooth without any creases or hint of wrinkles to come. Her eyes are large and dark-blue, the kind that draws one in and then traps them there with eyes that are far too innocent to _be_ innocent. Lace and cotton sleeves taper to showcase small palms with long, elegant fingers—fingers that belong on someone older than she.

But it is her hair that captures Vaughn’s attention.

She is young enough that it need not be pulled up and out of the way as high society demands. It falls to her waist and pulled back with a ribbon that matches her eyes. It is a deep black that Vaughn has never seen before; when she moves into the light the large window lets into the shop, her hair looks to be silver for a moment.

“You know, it’s very rude to stare,” The girl drawls in a lofty tone that has no business in one so young, she won’t be thinking about seasons for a long time to come. She crooks an eyebrow at him, “But I suppose it may be excused this time; I’m sure you’ve been distracted since the passing of your wife, Lord Vaughn.”

Vaughn’s face gives nothing away. He doesn’t know this girl, this little insolent chit, and yet, she knows him. How? He refuses to ask, and it seems that it works to his advantage, because she answers the unspoken question.

“My family and I were invited to the funeral, of course,” The girl shrugs, “My great-aunt was almost your father-in-law’s wife.”

Ah, yes. Vaughn has heard this story before. Then this must be an Alsworthy. “Then you must have heard that I will be leaving soon for the Continent.” His voice is velvet, with just the right amount of tone that makes the girl flush.

“Nothing like travel to take one’s mind off of… _unpleasant_ things.” The girl doesn’t chirp; she murmurs.

She is fifteen; she shouldn’t know how to do any of this. Questions form in Vaughn’s mind. Does she not hail from the country? Why is she in London? In this city, she could learn to be a seductress in the making. It would seem that she’s already begun.

He is just about to respond when a younger girl, perhaps ten or so, appears at the young Miss Alsworthy’s side and tugs on her sleeve. “Mary, Mary! Mama says we’re leaving soon!”

“Hush Letty!” Mary—the name suits her, somehow—hisses. She turns her dark eyes back on Vaughn and sweeps a shallow curtsey, looking up at him through her lashes in a sultry glance that she should not know. “Until you return, then, Lord Vaughn.”

“Indeed, Miss Alsworthy,” Vaughn responds with a bow just as shallow as her curtsey. He should not be encouraging her, but the genuine smile she flashes him warms his chest. She’s just a little girl, not even a woman yet.

Humoring the young doesn’t hurt.

-

In France, he meets Teresa.

She is his age, or nearly, and of pale skin and dark-blue eyes. Her voice is sultry and she has a way with words that enthrall him. When he kisses her, he likes to tug on her hair. It falls to her waist when she lets it down, and it is thick and silky.

It is black—pure black—and when the moonlight shines through the windowpanes of his French abode, her hair gleams silver.

-

A decade after he left Britain, he sets foot on British soil once more.

Little Miss Alsworthy of the entirely-too-knowledgeable-in-the-art-of-flirting has been long forgotten. That one encounter with a fifteen-year-old girl has been tucked away in a corner of Vaughn’s mind. There are more important things to worry about than her.

There are spies, spies, and more spies. Accusations fly and he is accused of being a French spy by the English and an English spy by the French. Really, it’s maddening. He is a peaceful sort of fellow; Vaughn much prefers to watch the saga unfold rather than take part in it himself.

But Jane enlists him to recruit Mary Alsworthy, now twenty-five, to capture the Black Tulip—somehow—and his life is now full of more complications and tricks that even Vaughn would care to admit. He is not a bachelor, he is in love with Mary Alsworthy, his wife is not dead, and Teresa is.

But because he is Vaughn, everything works out to his favor.

He regrets that Anne had to die, but really, he didn’t kill her. (He tells himself this to lessen the guilt—he might as well have killed her.) He is married to Mary Alsworthy—no, Mary Vaughn, now.

On their wedding night, they tumble into his bed and Mary looks up at him with dark-blue eyes and a smile on her beautiful face. They’ve been in this position before, but this time, Vaughn is not wounded or bleeding and is perfectly capable of carrying out his husbandly duties with his much-beloved wife. He leans down to press a kiss briefly to her reddened lips.

When he pulls away, he realises that he had neglected to pull the drapes closed; Mary is bathed in the glow of moonlight and looking ethereal in his bed.

Her hair gleams silver.

“How curious,” Vaughn murmurs, his hand coming up to play with the silvery strands.

“What?” Mary asks breathlessly, licking her lips nervously. For all her brave words and darkened glances from beneath long lashes, Vaughn knows that she is as pure as the fallen snow. She must be out of her mind by now.

“Teresa’s hair was silver in the moonlight as well.” Vaughn realises too late that bringing up a past mistress in bed with his wife is not a good idea. Especially after Mary had already told him that she’s the only woman in his life now, _or else._

Her eyes have already begun to narrow.

“Her hair reminded me of someone else,” Vaughn continues. He feels the need to tell Mary this; it’s a nagging feeling at the back of his mind. “It was a young girl, fifteen or so, I believe, that I met at a shop in London. She had black hair like yours, like Teresa’s, that was silver in light.”

To her credit, Mary doesn’t accuse him of being a cradle-robber. She does, however, give him a strange look, “How many years ago was this?”

“I had not yet left for the continent.” Vaughn says thoughtfully, “So, ten. Perhaps more.” He thinks aloud, “She was extraordinarily beautiful for one so young. Cheeky, but beautiful.”

“Thank you, Sebastian,” Mary rolls her eyes, “That was me, you dolt.”

Vaughn fixes her with a serious look, “You really shouldn’t have been flirting with me. Honestly, fifteen and a flirt.”

“Better than twenty-five and a prude,” Mary shoots back.

Vaughn silences her with a kiss.


End file.
